Letters
by eelatan
Summary: Part 1 of my 'Drabble-A-Day' challenge from Tumblr. John writes letters to a ghost.


**I'm starting the 'Drabble-A-Day' challenge on Tumblr and decided to make it Sherlock themed and post the drabbles here. So here's the first one…**

**Beginning. Accusation. Restless. Snowflake. Haze. Flame. Formal. Companion. Move. Silver. Prepared. Knowledge. Denial. Wind. Order. Thanks. Look. Summer. Transformation. Tremble. Sunset. Mad. Thousand. Outside. Winter. Diamond. Letters. Promise. Simple. Future.**

** I don't own any of the Sherlock characters. Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffatt do.  
**

* * *

LETTERS

John scribbled furiously onto the page, covering the rough paper with inane scrawling and nonsensical words. Angry words, sad words, disappointed words, hopeful words. He'd written a letter every single day since Sherlock left. His therapist had told him it would help and if he thought he was sceptical then, he was more than so now. But still he continued to write, maybe more out of habit now than anything else. Unleashing feelings he'd written countless times before.

_How could you go, Sherlock?  
Why did you want to leave me?  
What did I do?  
Please come back?  
I miss you.  
I need you here.  
I don't even care if you want to put another head in fridge.  
I kind of miss finding heads in the fridge.  
I miss the clatter of test tubes and the sound of you tapping your laptop keys.  
I miss the sound of your violin at 3am.  
I could have helped you.  
You didn't have to blank me out like that.  
We could have taken him down.  
Together.  
A team.  
Sherlock & John.  
That's what we do.  
Well it was what we did.  
You're almost like a distant memory now.  
I think about you daily but not like I used to.  
I'd yearn for you like a lost child yearns to find its mother.  
I'd walk the streets looking for you.  
In the rain, snow, sun, wind, dark, sunlight, dawn, dusk.  
I never found you Sherlock.  
Please come home to me.  
I don't work on my own.  
I'm just John.  
Not John Watson, friend of Sherlock Holmes.  
Not John Watson, colleague to Sherlock Holmes.  
Not even John Watson, flatmate of Sherlock Holmes.  
Just John.  
On his own.  
No-one to hear/help/see/comfort him.  
I'll keep writing to you until you decide to either come back or leave my memory for good.  
But you can't come back.  
You're dead.  
Confined to the sands of time.  
Most people will forget.  
You'll be another tabloid ghost.  
Mentioned once a year when they need to fill column inches.  
What about those of us who loved you?  
Who still love you.  
I hate feeling like this.  
I hate you for making me feel like this.  
If you came back right now, I have no idea what I'd say to you.  
Probably just put the kettle on and pretend everything's okay.  
It wouldn't be okay though.  
If you just waltzed back into Baker Street and expected to carry on as before.  
Because that would be far from okay.  
We'd have to discuss things.  
Mrs Hudson would want your half of the back-dated rent for starters.  
Molly still talks about you on the Internet.  
That girl would marry you if she could.  
I meet her several times a week for coffee.  
We only ever talk about you.  
Sometimes the weather but mostly you.  
I think I see you sometimes.  
On the tube.  
Hailing a cab.  
Ducking into Speedy's to shelter from the rain.  
But it's never you.  
Just my stupid mind playing stupid tricks.  
Every time I hear your name, it feels like my heart stops.  
Like I would want a vast pit to open up and consume every fibre of me.  
So I didn't have to miss you like this anymore.  
I hate you so much.  
But yet I can't stop myself from loving you with every last piece of my heart.  
Your ever-loving and only friend,  
John Watson._

John threw the fountain pen down causing it to spew a trail of ink across the page violently. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes as hard as he could until he saw white stars. The tears were coming again, as they so often did. He inhaled hard and focused all his effort on not letting them fall. He lifted the leather bound journal from the table and snapped it shut before adding it to the stack of identical ones beside the desk. He looked around wearily at the stacks of black books covering every surface, gathering dust, filled with all his words. John sighed and heaved himself up, knowing that no amount of words could ever mend his desperately broken heart.


End file.
